


Living Well

by buriedbybooks



Series: Leverage-Warehouse 13 Crossovers [1]
Category: Leverage, Warehouse 13
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Gun Violence, POV Eliot Spencer, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24280117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buriedbybooks/pseuds/buriedbybooks
Summary: Eliot witnesses an unusual confrontation between his employer and a conman.
Series: Leverage-Warehouse 13 Crossovers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034829
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	Living Well

**Author's Note:**

> I stumbled across a paragraph in an old manuscript that had the names St. Germain and Moreau. Nerd that I am, I immediately thought of Warehouse 13 and Leverage, respectively, and then started wondering what would happen if they met… So here is a crossover that no one asked for.
> 
> Many thanks to JustAsSweet for looking over what I write, no matter what odd paths my mind goes down.

Eliot didn’t know why he was here. When he did jobs for Moreau, he usually wasn’t babysitting for fancy events. He knew that Moreau liked to show off his power and influence--otherwise what was the point of having it, the man had once said. But Eliot’s presence up to this point had only been demanded to show off Moreau’s more brutal side during meetings or deals. Eliot was the best at what he did, and now he was on Moreau’s payroll; Moreau liked to remind people of it on occasion, between sending him out on retrievals. This was his first time, however, as one of Moreau’s bodyguards at a political function. Eliot didn’t like it. Retrievals were easier--he could work on his own, do things his own way.

Holding up his section of wall, Eliot suppressed a sigh and scanned the room. He kept tabs on where Moreau was at all times, but also wanted to gauge who else was present. The party seemed ordinary enough. People with money were showing it off to each other like peacocks. To each his or her own, Eliot figured.

Moreau was becoming more wound up by the moment, though, Eliot noted. The signs were all there--the tensing of the man’s shoulders, the tightness around his eyes and mouth--even while Moreau continued to smile and talk with the people around him. There were quick glances, though, which helped Eliot pinpoint who it was that had gotten Moreau’s hackles up.

It was a man who was flamboyantly attracting as much attention as possible. Looked like he was doing harmless parlor tricks and charming women. Eliot huffed, annoyed that someone would be stupid enough to try to upstage Moreau at one of his own parties. Everyone on the island knew Moreau’s reputation. This could only end badly.

Watching the man more closely, Eliot sized him up. Slim and muscled; he moved well, but had a practiced air of indolence; his face was rather rectangular and he kept his brown hair trimmed close to his head. Not a threat physically. But Eliot noted that most of the women who were around him or had spent time near him were no longer wearing nearly the number of jewels that they had been when he had arrived. A thief, then.

If Moreau noticed, the strange man likely would not leave here alive. Moreau had earned his ruthless reputation through tight control of his organization and a taste for brutal retribution against those that crossed him. Stealing from his guests… that was definitely crossing a line.

Eliot idly debated whether he should get involved. Get the man to leave before Moreau figured out exactly what he was doing. It wasn’t as if he had a problem with thieves in general, just when they were in his way or did things poorly.

Too late. Checking back in on Moreau, Eliot realized that his employer was on the move, making his way toward the thief in such a way as to not draw attention. Which was actually impressive given how imposing the man could be.

Moreau caught Eliot’s eye, and tilted his head toward the hallway. Apparently things were going to get messy.

Eliot watched as Moreau cut the thief away from the crowd and steered him out into the hallway. Following, Eliot made sure that they didn’t have a tail, and caught up with them in one of Moreau’s studies. He closed the door behind him and stood in front of it with his arms crossed, hand near the hilt of the gun in his shoulder holster. Eliot would only interfere under Moreau’s orders, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared.

Moreau was leaning against the edge of the desk, with his hands wrapped around the edge and his legs crossed out in front of him. The posture spoke of confidence, and it was only the tension in his hands and eyes that belied the man’s calm. The other man was wandering around the room, looking at everything and picking up the occasional object to examine it. From what he touched, Eliot knew the man was aware of the respective values of the decorations.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure before,” Moreau said. “Seems rather rude given you were stealing from my guests.”

“Bennett Sutton, Count of St. Germain, at your service,” the other man replied with a bow that was both oddly old fashioned and insolent. “And you’re also stealing from your guests.”

“True. But they are my guests. And I don’t recall inviting you to this particular party,” Moreau’s voice was almost a purr. He was definitely angry.

“It was a few baubles is all.” St. Germain shrugged as he picked up a vase and turned it over to look at the maker’s mark. “Nothing they’ll ever need or miss. Besides, the ladies enjoyed themselves and that is what really matters.”

Moreau’s temper was rising. It was still tightly reigned, however; Moreau knew that it was impossible to build and keep an empire without self-control. Either St. Germain couldn’t read Moreau’s anger at all, or he didn’t care. Given the raised eyebrow and sardonic expression, Eliot thought the Count knew exactly what he was doing. It was actually a strategy Moreau employed on occasion, but St. Germain was using it very effectively.

“I’m sure the ladies didn’t know they were paying for your parlor entertainment,” Moreau countered.

St. Germain pouted. “That would ruin the fun.”

“Were you just here for fun, or were you after something else as well?”

The Count waved a hand about and sighed as if this whole conversation were boring him. “I was just passing through and thought that a few parties in a non-extradition country would do me some good. I do have bills to pay, you know.”

Moreau crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “It isn’t wise to steal from me. Are you aware of who I am?” His voice was amused now, which Eliot knew meant that his temper was no longer leading him.

“Damien Moreau, yes, I know. Quite the empire you’ve built for yourself.”

Eliot saw St. Germain slip something into a pocket while ostentatiously examining another piece of art. If they turned the Count upside down and shook him, Eliot wondered how many hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of things would fall out.

“And yet you came here, took advantage of my hospitality, and stole from my guests.” Moreau’s tone meant that it wasn’t a question. He stood and moved around behind the desk.

“Your guests have excellent taste. So do you. French, from Marie Antoinette’s time if I’m not mistaken.” St. Germain showed Moreau a small trinket.

“If you could put that down,” Moreau requested politely. Once the object was safely back on its shelf, he shot the Count three times in the chest.

Eliot raised an eyebrow at his employer when Moreau walked over and handed him the gun. Moreau usually gave orders to have people do his dirty work rather than getting his own hands dirty.

“He was insolent. Not really a threat, but terribly annoying. Empty his pockets and make sure this all gets cleaned up.” Moreau straightened his jacket and left the room.

Quickly checking the gun in his hand, Eliot made sure the safety was on and expelled the clip. He’d put a new one back in before returning it to the desk drawer.

The man on the floor did not appear to be breathing, and there was blood soaking through his shirt and jacket. Eliot did his due diligence and checked for a pulse. None. The Count of St. Germain had been a fool, and now he was dead.

It took longer than Eliot had expected to find all of the jewelry that was squirreled away in the Count’s various pockets. It was, Eliot had to admit, an impressive collection.

As he turned to put all of the items on Moreau’s desk, Eliot heard a slight whisper of cloth against cloth behind him. His gun was out and cocked as he spun around and saw that the window was open and the Count was gone. Looking out the window, Eliot could see St. Germain sauntering down the driveway as if he hadn’t been dead a minute earlier.

Re-holstering his weapon, Eliot leaned on the window frame and watched St. Germain disappear from sight. He hadn’t been told to kill the man; Moreau would never ask what happened to the body. As far as Eliot was concerned, this was not his problem.

He might, Eliot decided, call up O’Neill. When the colonel had tried to recruit him a few years back, he’d alluded to some pretty weird shit. Maybe he had some experience with corpses reanimating.


End file.
